“Does she seem happy?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“How can I tell? We were in a cafe; we were playing chess; I had no opportunity to speak to her.”
“Oh, but couldn’t you tell by her face?”
I shook my head. I could only repeat that by no word, by no hinted gesture, had she given an indication of her feelings. He must know better than I how great were her powers of self-control. He clasped his hands emotionally.
“Oh, I’m so frightened. I know something is going to happen, something terrible, and I can do nothing to stop it.”
“What sort of thing?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he moaned, seizing his head with his hands. “I foresee some terrible catastrophe.”
Stroeve had always been excitable, but now he was beside himself; there was no reasoning with him. I thought it probable enough that Blanche Stroeve would not continue to find life with Strickland tolerable, but one of the falsest of proverbs is that you must lie on the bed that you have made. The experience of life shows that people are constantly doing things which must lead to disaster, and yet by some chance manage to evade the result of their folly. When Blanche quarrelled with Strickland she had only to leave him, and her husband was waiting humbly to forgive and forget. I was not prepared to feel any great sympathy for her.
“You see, you don’t love her,” said Stroeve.
“After all, there’s nothing to prove that she is unhappy. For all we know they may have settled down into a most domestic couple.”
Stroeve gave me a look with his woeful eyes.
“Of course it doesn’t much matter to you, but to me it’s so serious, so intensely serious.”
I was sorry if I had seemed impatient or flippant.
“Will you do something for me?” asked Stroeve.
“Willingly.”
“Will you write to Blanche for me?”
“Why can’t you write yourself?”
“I’ve written over and over again. I didn’t expect her to answer. I don’t think she reads the letters.”
“You make no account of feminine curiosity. Do you think she could resist?”
“She could—mine.”
I looked at him quickly. He lowered his eyes. That answer of his seemed to me strangely humiliating. He was conscious that she regarded him with an indifference so profound that the sight of his handwriting would have not the slightest effect on her.
“Do you really believe that she’ll ever come back to you?” I asked.
“I want her to know that if the worst comes to the worst she can count on me. That’s what I want you to tell her.”
I took a sheet of paper.
“What is it exactly you wish me to say?”
This is what I wrote:
Dear Mrs. Stroeve,
Dirk wishes me to tell you that if at any time you want him he will be grateful for the opportunity of being of service to you. He has no ill-feeling towards you on account of anything that has happened. His love for you is unaltered. You will always find him at the following address:
XXXIV
BUT THOUGH I was no less convinced than Stroeve that the connection between Strickland and Blanche would end disastrously, I did not expect the issue to take the tragic form it did. The summer came, breathless and sultry, and even at night there was no coolness to rest one’s jaded nerves. The sun-baked streets seemed to give back the heat that had beat down on them during the day, and the passers-by dragged their feet along them wearily. I had not seen Strickland for weeks. Occupied with other things, I had ceased to think of him and his affairs. Dirk, with his vain lamentations, had begun to bore me, and I avoided his society. It was a sordid business, and I was not inclined to trouble myself with it further.
One morning I was working. I sat in my Pyjamas. My thoughts wandered, and I thought of the sunny beaches of Brittany and the freshness of the sea. By my side was the empty bowl in which the concierge had brought me my cafe au lait and the fragment of croissant which I had not had appetite enough to eat. I heard the concierge in the next room emptying my bath. There was a tinkle at my bell, and I left her to open the door. In a moment I heard Stroeve’s voice asking if I was in. Without moving, I shouted to him to come. He entered the room quickly, and came up to the table at which I sat.
“She’s killed herself,” he said hoarsely.
“What do you mean?” I cried, startled.
He made movements with his lips as though he were speaking, but no sound issued from them. He gibbered like an idiot. My heart thumped against my ribs, and, I do not know why, I flew into a temper.
“For God’s sake, collect yourself, man,” I said. “What on earth are you talking about?”
He made despairing gestures with his hands, but still no words came from his mouth. He might have been struck dumb. I do not know what came over me; I took him by the shoulders and shook him. Looking back, I am vexed that I made such a fool of myself; I suppose the last restless nights had shaken my nerves more than I knew.
“Let me sit down,” he gasped at length.
I filled a glass with St. Galmier, and gave it to him to drink. I held it to his mouth as though he were a child. He gulped down a mouthful, and some of it was spilt on his shirt-front.
“Who’s killed herself?”
I do not know why I asked, for I knew whom he meant. He made an effort to collect himself.
“They had a row last night. He went away.”
“Is she dead?”
“No; they’ve taken her to the hospital.”
“Then what are you talking about?” I cried impatiently. “Why did you say she’d killed herself?”
“Don’t be cross with me. I can’t tell you anything if you talk to me like that.”
I clenched my hands, seeking to control my irritation. I attempted a smile.
“I’m sorry. Take your time. Don’t hurry, there’s a good fellow.”
His round blue eyes behind the spectacles were ghastly with terror. The magnifying-glasses he wore distorted them.
“When the concierge went up this morning to take a letter she could get no answer to her ring. She heard someone groaning. The door wasn’t locked, and she went in. Blanche was lying on the bed. She’d been frightfully sick. There was a bottle of oxalic acid on the table.”
Stroeve hid his face in his hands and swayed backwards and forwards, groaning.
“Was she conscious?”
“Yes. Oh, if you knew how she’s suffering! I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it.”
His voice rose to a shriek.
“Damn it all, you haven’t got to bear it,” I cried impatiently. “She’s got to bear it.”
“How can you be so cruel?”
“What have you done?”
“They sent for a doctor and for me, and they told the police. I’d given the concierge twenty francs, and told her to send for me if anything happened.”
He paused a minute, and I saw that what he had to tell me was very hard to say.
“When I went she wouldn’t speak to me. She told them to send me away. I swore that I forgave her everything, but she wouldn’t listen. She tried to beat her head against the wall. The doctor told me that I mustn’t remain with her. She kept on saying, ‘Send him away!’ I went, and waited in the studio. And when the ambulance came and they put her on a stretcher, they made me go in the kitchen so that she shouldn’t know I was there.”
While I dressed—for Stroeve wished me to go at once with him to the hospital—he told me that he had arranged for his wife to have a private room, so that she might at least be spared the sordid promiscuity of a ward. On our way he explained to me why he desired my presence; if she still refused to see him, perhaps she would see me. He begged me to repeat to her that he loved her still; he would reproach her for nothing, but desired only to help her; he made no claim on her, and on her recovery would not seek to induce her to return to him; she would be perfectly free.
But when w
e arrived at the hospital, a gaunt, cheerless building, the mere sight of which was enough to make one’s heart sick, and after being directed from this official to that, up endless stairs and through long, bare corridors, found the doctor in charge of the case, we were told that the patient was too ill to see anyone that day. The doctor was a little bearded man in white, with an offhand manner. He evidently looked upon a case as a case, and anxious relatives as a nuisance which must be treated with firmness. Moreover, to him the affair was commonplace; it was just an hysterical woman who had quarrelled with her lover and taken poison; it was constantly happening. At first he thought that Dirk was the cause of the disaster, and he was needlessly brusque with him. When I explained that he was the husband, anxious to forgive, the doctor looked at him suddenly, with curious, searching eyes. I seemed to see in them a hint of mockery; it was true that Stroeve had the head of the husband who is deceived. The doctor faintly shrugged his shoulders.
“There is no immediate danger,” he said, in answer to our questioning. “One doesn’t know how much she took. It may be that she will get off with a fright. Women are constantly trying to commit suicide for love, but generally they take care not to succeed. It’s generally a gesture to arouse pity or terror in their lover.”
There was in his tone a frigid contempt. It was obvious that to him Blanche Stroeve was only a unit to be added to the statistical list of attempted suicides in the city of Paris during the current year. He was busy, and could waste no more time on us. He told us that if we came at a certain hour next day, should Blanche be better, it might be possible for her husband to see her.
XXXV
I SCARCELY KNOW how we got through that day. Stroeve could not bear to be alone, and I exhausted myself in efforts to distract him. I took him to the Louvre, and he pretended to look at pictures, but I saw that his thoughts were constantly with his wife. I forced him to eat, and after luncheon I induced him to lie down, but he could not sleep. He accepted willingly my invitation to remain for a few days in my apartment. I gave him books to read, but after a page or two he would put the book down and stare miserably into space. During the evening we played innumerable games of piquet, and bravely, not to disappoint my efforts, he tried to appear interested. Finally I gave him a draught, and he sank into uneasy slumber.
When we went again to the hospital we saw a nursing sister. She told us that Blanche seemed a little better, and she went in to ask if she would see her husband. We heard voices in the room in which she lay, and presently the nurse returned to say that the patient refused to see anyone. We had told her that if she refused to see Dirk the nurse was to ask if she would see me, but this she refused also. Dirk’s lips trembled.
“I dare not insist,” said the nurse. “She is too ill. Perhaps in a day or two she may change her mind.”
“Is there anyone else she wants to see?” asked Dirk, in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.
“She says she only wants to be left in peace.”
Dirk’s hands moved strangely, as though they had nothing to do with his body, with a movement of their own.
“Will you tell her that if there is anyone else she wishes to see I will bring him? I only want her to be happy.”
The nurse looked at him with her calm, kind eyes, which had seen all the horror and pain of the world, and yet, filled with the vision of a world without sin, remained serene.
“I will tell her when she is a little calmer.”
Dirk, filled with compassion, begged her to take the message at once.
“It may cure her. I beseech you to ask her now.”
With a faint smile of pity, the nurse went back into the room. We heard her low voice, and then, in a voice I did not recognise the answer:
“No. No. No.”
The nurse came out again and shook her head.
“Was that she who spoke then?” I asked. “Her voice sounded so strange.”
“It appears that her vocal cords have been burnt by the acid.”
Dirk gave a low cry of distress. I asked him to go on and wait for me at the entrance, for I wanted to say something to the nurse. He did not ask what it was, but went silently. He seemed to have lost all power of will; he was like an obedient child.
“Has she told you why she did it?” I asked.
“No. She won’t speak. She lies on her back quite quietly. She doesn’t move for hours at a time. But she cries always. Her pillow is all wet. She’s too weak to use a handkerchief, and the tears just run down her face.”
It gave me a sudden wrench of the heart-strings. I could have killed Strickland then, and I knew that my voice was trembling when I bade the nurse good-bye.
I found Dirk waiting for me on the steps. He seemed to see nothing, and did not notice that I had joined him till I touched him on the arm. We walked along in silence. I tried to imagine what had happened to drive the poor creature to that dreadful step. I presumed that Strickland knew what had happened, for someone must have been to see him from the police, and he must have made his statement. I did not know where he was. I supposed he had gone back to the shabby attic which served him as a studio. It was curious that she should not wish to see him. Perhaps she refused to have him sent for because she knew he would refuse to come. I wondered what an abyss of cruelty she must have looked into that in horror she refused to live.
XXXVI
THE NEXT WEEK was dreadful. Stroeve went twice a day to the hospital to enquire after his wife, who still declined to see him; and came away at first relieved and hopeful because he was told that she seemed to be growing better, and then in despair because, the complication which the doctor had feared having ensued, recovery was impossible. The nurse was pitiful to his distress, but she had little to say that could console him. The poor woman lay quite still, refusing to speak, with her eyes intent, as though she watched for the coming of death. It could now be only the question of a day or two; and when, late one evening, Stroeve came to see me I knew it was to tell me she was dead. He was absolutely exhausted. His volubility had left him at last, and he sank down wearily on my sofa. I felt that no words of condolence availed, and I let him lie there quietly. I feared he would think it heartless if I read, so I sat by the window, smoking a pipe, till he felt inclined to speak.
“You’ve been very kind to me,” he said at last. “Everyone’s been very kind.”
“Nonsense,” I said, a little embarrassed.
“At the hospital they told me I might wait. They gave me a chair, and I sat outside the door. When she became unconscious they said I might go in. Her mouth and chin were all burnt by the acid. It was awful to see her lovely skin all wounded. She died very peacefully, so that I didn’t know she was dead till the sister told me.”
He was too tired to weep. He lay on his back limply, as though all the strength had gone out of his limbs, and presently I saw that he had fallen asleep. It was the first natural sleep he had had for a week. Nature, sometimes so cruel, is sometimes merciful. I covered him and turned down the light. In the morning when I awoke he was still asleep. He had not moved. His gold-rimmed spectacles were still on his nose.
XXXVII
THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF Blanche Stroeve’s death necessitated all manner of dreadful formalities, but at last we were allowed to bury her. Dirk and I alone followed the hearse to the cemetery. We went at a foot-pace, but on the way back we trotted, and there was something to my mind singularly horrible in the way the driver of the hearse whipped up his horses. It seemed to dismiss the dead with a shrug of the shoulders. Now and then I caught sight of the swaying hearse in front of us, and our own driver urged his pair so that we might not remain behind. I felt in myself, too, the desire to get the whole thing out of my mind. I was beginning to be bored with a tragedy that did not really concern me, and pretending to myself that I spoke in order to distract Stroeve, I turned with relief to other subjects.
“Don’t you think you’d better go away for a bit?” I said. “There can be no object in your staying in Pa
ris now.”
He did not answer, but I went on ruthlessly:
“Have you made any plans for the immediate future?”
“No.”
“You must try and gather together the threads again. Why don’t you go down to Italy and start working?”
Again he made no reply, but the driver of our carriage came to my rescue. Slackening his pace for a moment, he leaned over and spoke. I could not hear what he said, so I put my head out of the window. He wanted to know where we wished to be set down. I told him to wait a minute.
“You’d better come and have lunch with me,” I said to Dirk. “I’ll tell him to drop us in the Place Pigalle.”
“I’d rather not. I want to go to the studio.”
I hesitated a moment.
“Would you like me to come with you?” I asked then.
“No; I should prefer to be alone.”
“All right.”
I gave the driver the necessary direction, and in renewed silence we drove on. Dirk had not been to the studio since the wretched morning on which they had taken Blanche to the hospital. I was glad he did not want me to accompany him, and when I left him at the door I walked away with relief. I took a new pleasure in the streets of Paris, and I looked with smiling eyes at the people who hurried to and fro. The day was fine and sunny, and I felt in myself a more acute delight in life. I could not help it; I put Stroeve and his sorrows out of my mind. I wanted to enjoy.
XXXVIII
I DID NOT see him again for nearly a week. Then he fetched me soon after seven one evening and took me out to dinner. He was dressed in the deepest mourning, and on his bowler was a broad black band. He had even a black border to his handkerchief. His garb of woe suggested that he had lost in one catastrophe every relation he had in the world, even to cousins by marriage twice removed. His plumpness and his red, fat cheeks made his mourning not a little incongruous. It was cruel that his extreme unhappiness should have in it something of buffoonery.
He told me he had made up his mind to go away, though not to Italy, as I had suggested, but to Holland.
“I’m starting to-morrow. This is perhaps the last time we shall ever meet.”